


After The Fact

by fullmoonhunter01



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: (as part of the story - interspersed with normal prose), All Tags May Not Apply To Current Chapters, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Blood and Gore, Diary/Journal, Digestive Issues, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Murder, Self-Reflection, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullmoonhunter01/pseuds/fullmoonhunter01
Summary: Winslow Aching, would-be storywriter, never knew that solving his problems could be as easy as murder.  And then he learned the hard way that it wasn't.





	After The Fact

Personal _diary, Winslow Aching. June 11, 1948_  

 _It looks like any other day, right? Any other day of any other year. If I was any other guy, I guess it would be. But this day, this June, is something new. A new day. A new year. The beginning of a whole new life._  

 _What does that mean? Well, first and foremost it means Mrs. Wendham's finally gone. Wheaton and me, we made it happen. I don't think I need to go on with the details. The main thing is, no more Wendham. For me or anybody else._  

 _Wheaton took me away from the house, which was something I wasn't expecting. He's right, though - I don't want to be anywhere near that place when they find out what happened to the old witch. He's brought me out here to the middle of nowhere, some place I'd swear has never seen a human being before. And I mean in every capacity. I haven't eaten a single thing today that I didn't pick off a bush or out of the ground._  

 _Doesn't sound like much of a deal, right? I certainly can't disagree. For one thing, Wheaton didn't say anything about this when he talked me into killing the old lady, and now he says he's gotta keep me here while he gets everything ready for my "new life."_  

 _He also says, and this is another thing he sprung on me, that there's some kind of test out here he wants me to try and figure out. Supposedly if I can find it and beat it, there'll be some kind of a reward - something above and beyond getting rid of that thorn in my side. Until then, I guess, I've just gotta keep hanging in there. Try not to starve._  

_I know it's not what I was hoping for. In fact, it sounds pretty damn raw. I'd like to say that I know what's going on and it's all going to work out, but the truth is, I'm not sure I've really done right for myself._

  _I'm willing to go along with it, though. What choice do I have? Look where I came from; look what I did to get here. Maybe that's just my way of saying "I've already come this far", but the way I see it, if I put up with two years living under her roof, I can deal with whatever Wheaton has to throw at me. At least he's been mostly upfront about it. More than Wendham was, anyway._  

 _She was using me. I can't believe how long it took me to see that. All the servant work she had me do, the number of times she postponed one of our meetings because something just got in the way - she took advantage of me, and I was dumb enough to fall for it._  

\--- 

Winslow twirled the pen in his fingers, looking over the last paragraph with stern dissatisfaction. It felt raw. Unfinished. _You don't just leave a story open-ended like that,_ he chastised himself. _It needs something to tie it together, something punchy, something..._

 _Eh, to hell with it._ It wasn't a story, he reminded himself. It was a journal. A record of _real_ shit. Let it end on that note. Anybody who read this would probably appreciate being reminded how stupid Winslow had been back in the day.

 _He_ definitely appreciated a reminder now and then. 

 _Maybe they need another one, then._ The tip of his pen hovered thoughtfully over the next line. _Maybe they do need to know how she died. How I..._  

The memories came back at once. 

The old woman's body lying motionless on the platform. Not dead yet, just knocked out from the drugs Winslow had given her. The work he'd put into getting her to take them - she was very particular, especially where tea was concerned, and it had taken some creativity on his part. 

The dais... that part he'd had no hand in. It had just been there when he dragged her outside, just like Wheaton had promised, a big ugly thing with grooves cut through it and a hole in the center. All of it had filled up with her blood when he... _when I..._  

He pressed his pen to the paper, trying to get the words out, but they were stuck inside him with the memories. _I killed her. With a knife, I cut her throat open and I watched her bleed out._ He remembered the first spray - he'd been expecting it to be hot, because _isn't blood hot from being inside your body?_ but it'd had plenty of time to cool by the time it hit his skin. 

He hadn't stopped to look at the incision. His stomach had already started turning in his gut; he knew if he stopped it would get the better of him. So he'd just kept cutting, watching the spray turn into a trickle that turned into a burbling stream, and for one perfect moment it was beautiful. Her selfish life poured from her throat like wine, every ounce weakening her hold on him, gradually loosing the cords that had kept him tied to failure. It all spilled out, staining everything in its path, much like she had done in life. 

 _Oh god._  

It was all coming back now, without the rush of adrenaline to filter out the horror. Mrs. Wendham's body, unnaturally still. Blood that had once been hot and fresh curdling into pools all around him - on her face, her dress, the grass around the platform. The gash in her throat, caked with more blood, that _he himself_ had put there, with his own hand, his own knife - _it was me. I'm the one who did it, I'm the one who killed her._  

The nausea from back then, which had been making its own comeback with his memories, was finally too strong to fight. Winslow had just enough time to lay his journal somewhere safe before the heaving started, his own body forcing him to the ground, close enough to the fire that he felt his skin start to cook before the first round of half-digested goop spewed out from his throat. 

After what felt like hours of agony - first vomiting, then dry heaves and finally aftershocks wracked with pain and the taste of bile - Winslow collected himself, stoked the fire, and returned to his journal. Carefully, fighting the shakes that still ran through his body, he opened the book to a fresh page and wrote in one more line: 

_I killed the widow Charlene Wendham._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd put this up here, since I wrote it. If people enjoy it, that's cool too.


End file.
